Seas of Justice Chronicles
by JaxLass
Summary: Pre-CotBP/EITC Captain Bill Turner makes a promise to an old friend, involving himself in the treacherous struggle of the powerful Beckett family and leaving him with more than one dangerous prize.
1. The Crown's Displeasure1

**DISCLAIMER NOTE****: **Elements of _Seas of Justice_ are woven into _A Pirate's Life No More, Misplaced Hearts,_ and _Which Way Lies True_ for the purposes of foundation, development and continuity. They don't presume to replace PotC's back-story content.

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Summary: EITC Captain Bill Turner makes a promise to an old friend, involving himself in the treacherous struggle of the powerful Beckett family and leaving him with more than one dangerous prize.

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**The Seas of Justice Chronicles**

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**PRICE OF RESURRECTION**

**Chapter 1 – The Crown's Displeasure**

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**Nassau Port – 1656**

"But I am tellin' you, it's of the utmost urgency that I speak with Lord Bentley Beckett!"

The nonplussed midshipman barred the intruder's entry with a crossed musket. "Sorry, sir. That's not possible. We have orders to escort---"

"Mr. Torrey, is there a problem here?"

Torrey winced, lowering his weapon a fraction as he turned his white-wigged head to meet the crisp, pristine officer in blue stalking him purposefully down the planked walkway. "No, Lieutenant Norrington, sir. This _gentleman_, he's here to call on _Administrator _Beckett, sir."

"I see." The young officer frowned in uncertainty, surveying the intruder with mild distaste. Obviously a ship's captain by the look of his worn flared black coat and wide-brimmed boots. He had no time for the East India Trading Company's disgruntled employees today. He had a schedule to keep and no ragged-dressed sailor would be tolerated as an interruption. "As you were, Mr. Torrey."

Impatiently, the older man returned the appraisal, sighing. "Look, _lieutenant_, I'm Captain William Turner of the _Fayre Mistress _and I've come at the behest of Lord Bentley Beckett. He's a good friend and is expecting my visit!"

Norrington's frown relaxed slightly as he nodded. "Then I would suggest, _captain,_ that you make your visit brief as Administrator Beckett has been summarily relieved of his duties here by orders of his Royal Majesty, and is to accompany us back to England forthwith."

"It's true, then?" Turner grimaced, shaking his dark head in denial. "Bentley's been falsely charged with treasonous acts against the Crown. You can't know how preposterous that be!"

The officer's frown deepened again and his posture stiffened. "I'm not at liberty, sir, to determine the validity of charges levied against _any_ subject of the Crown." He curtly gestured for Torrey to stand aside and allow the man through the large stone-carved archway. Turner encountered more marines guarding the length of the foyer; each gave him a cursory glance, but otherwise offered no acknowledgement in passing.

The once vibrant-colored tapestries draped along the stone arches now hung in gloom and shadows, the large colorfully painted Beckett coat-of-arms had been removed from the ante chamber wall, replaced with an enormous, yet unimpressive portrait of a frilly-bedecked gold-haired child kneeling attentively at the foot of King George's throne. Although a rough rendering, William shuddered, recognizing the fawning boy as the youngest Beckett sibling, Cutler.

"Move along, sir," one of the marine guards advised him warily and opened the huge wood-studded door wider into Beckett's lavish offices.

No welcoming hearth fire, Turner noticed in dismay. And the intricately designed Egyptian vases and delicately carved statues from the Colonies no longer sat in display on the mantel above. Gazing around in surprise, he found the towering gray stone walls behind the wide desk, the high-bracketed wood shelves and glass-enclosed cabinets all to be bare.

One concession, or perhaps exception, from the new regime, still hung above a low table of tattered rolled maps and charts. An almost life-sized portrait of a beautiful woman,_ Lady Dominique Lieuxbois-Beckett_, gazed imperiously back at him. A haughty, but exquisite young woman, she sat in a flowing white frock amid a healthy garden of soft pink and dainty white roses, the loose ringlets of her black hair swept from her face by sparkling green gemstone beads over her left ear. Far beyond the vine-festooned stone wall, a stately old castle rose like jagged spires from the center of a green hillside, the Beckett pennant flying from the battlements against a cloudless sky.

"Lovely, is she not?" The voice sounded heavy with regret, resigned. "He's wanted father's painting for more years than I can recall. And now it's his."

"Aye, your mother was beautiful," William agreed, turning to warmly clasp his friend's outstretched hand. "Ah, Bentley! Great Heavens, man, how has it come to this? The Crown's always prospered with you and your father here! Blamin' _you_ for recent profit losses makes no sense to me!"

"Family politics, my friend," Bentley sighed, straightening his bright green white-laced jacket over his sturdy bulk. He studied the painting in admiration, smiling ruefully. "No, dear, dear mother, French born, didn't take well to drafty Irish castles, preferring the saucy intrigues of the royal court. I feared no good could have come of it for an impoverished lad from County Claire. They made Cutler into a self-serving, vain and pompous fop, William, a truly vindictive man, one for whom no loyalty remains to his own family, with the exception, of course, of _her_."

"The _new_ matriarch." Turner nodded in grim, helpless understanding, hearing no fond remembrances in his friend's tone. "Bentley, there _must_ be a way to fight this injustice…"

"William, there is little time left!" Beckett caught his upper arm, his fingers tightening with urgency. "Cutler is most welcome to mother's portrait… and any other trinket left here which he may covet as a symbol of his triumph over our late father's wishes, I care not." His gaze lowered cautiously to the rolled maps and charts below the imposing painting. "Promise me that you will see to Anglia's welfare. Don't let Cutler's bitterness and hunger corrupt our sweet sister, William."

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TBC


	2. The Crown's Displeasure2

**PRICE OF RESURRECTION**

**Chapter 1 – The Crown's Displeasure/2**

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Turner blinked, mouth dropping open in silent protest. "This is what you would ask of me?"

"In part," Bentley returned quietly, but his panicky friend's objection drowned the words.

"I know little of the lass, but that she's betrothed to an honest youth of simple means." How could he admit to Bentley that he had _abandoned_ his own wife and child in England? "Would that I knew how, yet I cannot in all conscience—" He broke off, realizing that the big Irishman's gaze had not shifted from the table full of charts.

"Bentley?"

"Yes, simple means," he echoed, distracted. "I'm afraid, my friend, there is no longer hope of a wedding between my sister and this boy of no discernible promise," he determined in solemn finality. He released Turner to bend and push aside half-rolled charts as if seeking something he had long misplaced. "Our poor Jeannine's loss has made certain of that."

"Wait! Your other sister - she's _died_?" Turner hadn't expected to hear that sad news.

Bentley stopped moving, bowing his head. "I pray God forgive Mother's ambitions," he said with quiet regret. "Jeannine wanted to please her, but she was… frailer in carriage than Angelia, and not fit, so it would sadly seem, to birth… a child."

"I'm so sorry, Bentley."

The Irishman nodded in gratitude, allowing his silent grief to pass. "Cutler, I must warn you, will not only _forbid_ a union with the rootless son of a common merchant seaman, he will assuredly condemn and sabotage it once he becomes privy to it."

"Have you told _this_ to Lady Angelia?"

"She will _know,_" he said evasively, and then suddenly brightened. "Ah, yes! It's here!" The Irishman had uncovered a small canvas bag tightly tied in rawhide cord. He lifted it reverently and let its slight bulk drop box-shaped to the bottom in a muted clink of metal. "Mother, you see, will have taught her wretched creation the convenient value of a prosperous marriage - with or without an heir - and he'll be promising his own sister to half the King's deviant court."

"That cannot be!" William eyed the canvas bag with trepidation. "Bentley, you have _already_ blessed that union! Your _sworn_ word is as binding as _law_ to this company!!"

Bentley sighed. "Without my father's protection, I fear I must answer formal charges. William, I have _no one_ that I can trust with the care of my sister – or _this_."

"What is _that_?" Turner took a cautious step backward from the canvas sack, eyes widening warily. "Bentley, that's not your sister's dowry, is it?"

"Please, you _must_ take it." Bentley Beckett smiled without mirth, holding the bag out. The box shape inside, Turner noted, was no bigger than a man's fist and didn't appear to move on its own or make threatening noises. Well, not so far.

"Why me?"

Beckett narrowed his eyes slightly in impatience, forearm outstretched. "I've always deemed you an honest man, William; a man to trust with a secret – as is this. Please take it far from here and hide it away safely as it can _never_ be claimed by the Crown."

"Hi-hide it?" Turner stumbled. "From what, er, _who_?"

Bentley groaned. "From Cutler, of course. I truly wish I had time to explain. I can only say that that those whom long ago entrusted my father with it wished it to be gone and long forgotten. My father and I both failed to honor that promise. Suffice it to say that should I _not_ return from England, my brother must _never_ know of it or he would hound you to the very ends of the earth to retrieve it!"

"Hound… _me_?" Turner managed through the tightness in his throat, struggling with a sense of horror and frustrated curiosity. "No, wait! _If _you _don't_… return?" He felt his right arm lifting, but couldn't make it reach out for the mysterious bag. Even hearing the loud stomp of boots and rustling whisper of drawing weapons, he still hesitated. "Bentley, you can't ask this of me!"

"Lord Beckett, it's time, sir!" Norrington declared behind the half-open door. "Your escort awaits!"

A fleeting look of desperate uncertainty crossed the Irishman's face. He grabbed Turner's hand and shook it fiercely in sorrowful farewell. "Heed this, William, the lady awaits you at Tassley Road, the _Brim and Crock_," he said, barely audible, stuffing the bag inside his friend's open coat before he could move or protest. "At dusk today. Please take care of her, my good friend and yourself, as well. And I beg of you, speak of this conversation to _none_. Goodbye."

"Goodbye…Bentley," Turner murmured, fingers unconsciously pressing the small bag into his ribcage when an armed red-coated marine appeared at the entry. He could only watch, numbed, unable to follow as his old friend and former ship's captain walked with a stiff gait out through the polished wood doors of his stripped office for the last time. "Right. Dusk today. The _Brim and Crock _Inn… on Tassley Road."

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TBC


End file.
